My Favourite Things
by reenka
Summary: kittens and fireworks and ice-cream and fuzzies, cotton underwear and smiles and grammas and tummies-- these are NOT draco malfoy's favourite things. (um. that's better in a sing-songy voice). anyway, it's christmasy fuzzy fluffy snarky!slash. H/D


disclaimer: jk rowling owns what i don't.  
  
warning: erm. slash. and sap. and um, fluffy bunnies eating your nose.  
  
a/n: this is inspired by ashura, who was tired of death-fics and wanted us all to consider the zen of fluffy kittens & pretty-boy sex, and secondarily the `armchair slash' seasonal fic challenge. comments roasted over an open fire, and eaten with gusto (ie, please tell me if it was sickeningly sappy or bearably amusing, heh).  
  
  
  
  
~~My Favourite Things.  
  
  
Malfoy stood awkwardly at the door, shuffling his feet and rubbing at his nose, very delicately, with the heel of his palm. He thought he might be getting a cold. Yes, that was it. Dratted drafty Hogwarts dorms in winter-- quite below standards, if he did say so himself. His father must hear of this. Besides, it wasn't that his flashes of bashfulness didn't come often-- they were simply non-existent. Still, he was very glad no one was around to see this one. Of course, not many people were around at all, not for days now. It was Christmas vacation, and though he'd really rather be spending it locked up in his room at Malfoy Manor, learning a few more dark curses to throw at everyone that annoyed him (meaning: everyone), here he was. In Hogwarts. In the Gryffindor dorms. In Harry Potter's room. Watching him sleep, because he had left the curtains open and there was no one else in the room, after all. Well, no one except Malfoy, but really, Malfoy realized he was unpredictable and no one could be faulted for not knowing when to expect him.  
  
He wished he had an excuse-- like, he was insane, or perhaps the extremely pissed off spirit of that house elf he'd driven to suicide last spring was in possession of his body, greatly enjoying wreaking what little havoc he was capable of imagining onto his life. Yes. Malfoys didn't make excuses, of course, Malfoys just made precedents, that's what his father would say. It was the truth. The kitten squirmed in his arms, almost waking up. He looked down, slightly annoyed. Kittens were really horrendously frustrating, evil creatures. It was quite fitting he was holding one-- as a sign of his depravity, his evil intent. All the more sophisticated Slytherins had cats as pets. Black, hissing, green-eyed, angry cats. Best not to let his mind wander in that direction, Malfoy decided.  
  
The kitten was now scratching his wrist with its tiny, needle-sharp claws, quite methodically. Curiously, Malfoy looked down and noticed that he was dripping pure-bred blood onto the red-gold carpeting. He smiled. As quietly as he knew how (which was very quietly indeed), he walked forward, his step sure and his countenance calm and composed, even as the kitten began to bite and tear at his angora sweater with ever-increasing enthusiasm. He deposited the kitten ever-so gently on top of Harry's ankles, at which point the contrary creature promptly fell asleep, after a desultory lick of its paws. No doubt it likes the taste of pure blood already, Malfoy thought, and smirked. After considering his options for half a minute, he turned and walked away, quietly of course. The kitten didn't follow, but then, it was a Slytherin kitten. It had no sense of loyalty whatsoever. Just as it should be, naturally.  
~~  
  
At breakfast, Potter kept looking at him suspiciously from under his bangs. Malfoy felt certain the other boy was doing it with what he considered to be stealth and cunning. That is what made it enjoyable. The realization that Harry Potter was really bloody awful at anything resembling either of those qualities. He may as well be shining a mirror directly at Malfoy, with intent to blind. It was, of course, a rather flattering situation. The kitten was eating Potter's holiday treats of breakfast sausage and licking suspiciously at the pumpkin juice. Harry was seemingly torn between amusement and something like fear. Malfoy was satisfied. This was a good start. Confusion was a good tactic, he decided. Keep your enemies on your toes. Who expects kittens? No one. No one at all. That was his strength. His advantage. He should press it.  
  
Potter had gotten up and was walking toward him. Malfoy pretended not to notice, playing with some lint on his sleeve, though of course he had no lint. Malfoys never had lint, it was just unheard of. But he was sure Potter was too uncouth to know that.   
  
"What the hell's the meaning of this, Malfoy?" Harry said, in what he probably meant to be an indignant, interrogatory tone. It came out as a squeak.  
  
"Whatever do you mean, Potter? And do move, you're blocking my sunlight."  
  
"Your -sunlight-? What are you on about? I -know- you had something to do with the kitten. No one else would be so cruel as to carve a lightning bolt on a poor innocent creature's forehead, you sick bastard!" Harry was really working himself up now, and his fists were clenched at his sides. Probably to stop them from trembling in intimidation. Malfoy smirked.  
  
"You think I gave you a -kitten-, Potter? How sweet. I didn't know we were on such... intimate terms. I'm flattered," he said, his smile almost escaping. Almost, but not quite.  
  
Potter sputtered. "Intimate? You're deranged. I'll prove this, I swear it. I won't let you get away with harrassing innocent animals to further your sick fantasies of revenge! This-- this is a new low, even for you," he said, and turned to walk away.  
  
"Potter. If I'd known it would offend you so, I -would- have done it, but alas, I have better things to do than torture kittens. Gryffindors and Mudbloods are much more my style, I'd have thought you knew that."  
  
Potter seemed to growl at that, or maybe snarl-- or both, but he didn't turn around. He walked stiffly back to his seat, just in time to bat the kitten away from his fish-head soup. Malfoy was starting to have a really good feeling about this Christmas vacation.  
~~  
  
"But Master, we're not supposed to have ice-cream until Tuesday at the very earliest, and especially not -this- sort. That isn't on the menu, Master!" the house-elf squeaked, slowly backing away as Malfoy advanced upon it.  
  
"You will do as I say or my -father- hears about this. You don't want to end up working in a sweat-shop for those nasty trolls in London, do you? Well, do you?" Malfoy said, infusing just the right amount of ice into his tone.  
  
The house elf quavered before him, looking at its toes, or its finger or anything but Malfoy's flashing silver eyes. "Yes Master. I'll do the best I can."  
  
"Of course you will. Or we will talk again, now won't we?"  
  
"Yessir," the elf managed, before bolting out the door.   
  
"Good," Malfoy said, glaring at the open door, just because that was what was expected. Even though he liked doing what was unexpected, you had to ration it out, to keep your edge. Always keep your edge, that was the important thing. Malfoy smirked. He had plenty of edge, and plenty of opportunity to hone it. Oh, life was good when there was no one around to tell you otherwise.  
~~  
  
Potter was staring in consternation at the elegant glass bowl which appeared quite suddenly to his right. It was filled with ice-cream-- gloriously smooth-looking ice-cream at that, swirling with what seemed to be dollops of caramel and sprinkled liberally with bits of fudge. His mouth watered. Christmas wasn't until the day after tomorrow. He's going to have to thank Dumbledore for this. He spooned a generous amount into his mouth and gasped, his eyes widening. "Oh," he exhaled, after a few minutes passed of him sitting quite still, trying to process this new, tingly feeling racing through his body. He'd had butterbeer, of course, and spiked pumpkin juice a few times-- but this. This was in a whole new category of intoxicating substances, he was sure.  
  
He was far too mellow far too quickly to feel all that suspicious about this striking development. He promptly forgot about thanking Dumbledore and stared intently at Malfoy, who was picking delicately at his own bowl of ice-cream, which contained considerably less of the heavenly substance. Harry felt pleased, thinking that of course, Malfoy didn't deserve any more than what he got, and he probably didn't deserve what he had, either. This wasn't accompanied by much bitterness, because quite frankly, he wasn't very capable of bitterness at the moment. He smiled quite widely at the Slytherin, his eyes acquiring a sort of benevolent sheen, and everything seemed quite peachy-keen and dandy the more ice-cream he had. He was feeling almost-- pleasant toward the Slytherin. Harry wished Ron and Hermione were here to share his holidary cheer with, but they were taking a holiday together right about now, and really, he couldn't hold -that- against them, either. He was sure they were probably having a lot of fun right now, getting some sun and some sea-air and some snogging in between. Well, he was having fun too, see if he wasn't.   
  
Malfoy was biting his lip quite savagely now, to stifle his laughter. Potter looked like quite the idiot, sitting there, grinning at the walls and the ceiling and the world at large-- and himself, of course. Showing lots of teeth. Fudge-stained teeth, at that. Oh, this was good. Too bad Colin Creevy wasn't around to immortalize this moment, but that was alright, Malfoy liked having this all to himself. He briefly pondered whether Potter could be gotten to do some even more amusing things, right here in the Great Hall, as inebriated as he was, but no. One thing at a time. He liked delaying his pleasure. It made it all worthwhile in the end. Still, he couldn't resist one little taste.  
  
He walked up to the grinning Gryffindor. "Hullo there, Potter," he said, pleasantly.  
  
"Why hullo, Malfoy. `Tis good, innit?" he said, beaming at him even more widely than before.  
  
Something ticklish and uncomfortable fluttered briefly in Malfoy's stomach. He frowned. "Yes, I'm sure it would seem so to you. You probably never even had Malfoy's Lucky Blend ice-cream before, have you?"  
  
Potter's eyes widened almost comically. "Malfoy's.... Wow, Draco, I never knew your family was so talented," he said, seriously.   
  
And just a hint of Bailey's can really take you for a loop, Potter, Malfoy thought. I must remember this for future reference. "Of course. We're very talented, ravishingly attractive, as well as brilliantly well-endowed in every single other area. What else would you have expected?"  
  
"Hmm," Harry said noncommitally, licking some residual bits of dessert off his spoon, his tongue strikingly pink against vanilla-smeared lips. Malfoy swallowed, thinking that he really should've had some of that himself.   
  
"Well, I'll be going now," Malfoy said quickly, and hurried as slowly as he knew how, back to his seat. Potter didn't seem to notice, lost in intense examination of his gleaming silver spoon. Malfoy rolled his eyes and sipped delicately at his cocoa-- laced with liquor, naturally, but it just wasn't the same as Bailey's fudge ice-cream. He sighed. He couldn't afford to be too obvious, of course. He'll just have to make sure to switch their desserts, next time. He intended full payback for that shameless tongue-flicking, oh yes. Malfoy scowled, pointedly ignoring the glazing of his own eyes, and the tightening in his trousers, even more pointedly than that.  
~~  
  
Malfoys didn't -do- cozy. This was an accepted fact of life, and the youngest Malfoy was quite content with that for most of his. Still, the cold damp air of his room in the dungeons, the lack of a fire, the lack of presents (Malfoys didn't do Christmas, either), the lack of company most of all. Not even his own personal house elf to torture. It was all conspiring to make him quite close to maudlin, and that was just unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. Malfoys did brood, and plot, and act menacing, and he contented himself with practicing all of those things. He lay back against his head-board, complaining bitterly to himself about the horrible draft now snaking across his right foot. He would bet Gryffindors didn't have drafts. He bet they had fluffy pillows and fireplaces and holiday cheer and marshmallows and cookies from their grandmothers stuffed in brightly glittering red-and-gold stockings (to match the carpet). He thought he was going to be sick. He had pillows-- luxurious, dark green silk pillows. Only the best. They were permanently fluffed, and they gleamed with a thousand little silver sparkles at night, like the night sky. Well, if the night sky was secretly green, of course. Malfoy sighed.  
  
He was bored. He was running out of sickeningly non-evil, unexpectedly fluffy pranks to play on Potter. What was he going to amuse himself with for the next week? Suddenly, an idea came to him. He could do a spell! He could switch Potter's surely cotton, cozy and fluffy and utterly disgusting pillows with his own! An invasion of pillows. They would cradle Potter's head at night, waiting for just the right moment to suffocate him, to steal his breath and spy upon his most intimate-- and revealing-- dreams. Yes. Malfoy's mind began working feverishly, his fingers worrying at the edge of his silken pillow, in anticipation of one he could actually fluff. He was going to enjoy fluffing it. Malfoy liked novelty-- when it suited him, of course.  
~~  
  
It would be an understatement to say Potter was surprised to suddenly come to bed and find entirely new pillows-- shimmering green pillows, at that-- greeting his tired, sleepy gaze. He pondered this mystery for a moment, and then decided he'll think about it tomorrow, since he was quite tired from a day full of snowball fights and extracurricular tutoring in Defense Against the Dark Arts and a long stint helping Hagrid gather strange, putrid-smelling roots and berries to feed his latest monster. He lost the great majority of his consciousness as soon as his head hit the pillow, vaguely thinking that he liked the new smell, it reminded him of spring and lilacs and most fleetingly, a perfume reminiscent of rose-petals and talcum powder, which made him think of vague, soft memories from his early childhood he'd mostly forgotten. It left him with a sense of comfort and the sensation of swimming, bathing in the still waters of peaceful memory. He smiled and whispered his mother's name, before falling completely into dreamless sleep.  
~~  
  
When the tattered, half-way fluffed pillows landed on his lap, Malfoy scowled, thinking that he really should've expected this. Nothing was fair, when it came to Potter, and now he was missing his best two pillows, and had only some musty old threadbare things in return. He stroked the surface of one, tentatively. It was soft, and seemed fluffable, just as he'd thought. Thoughtfully, he laid his whole hand across it, pressing down. It gave easily, seeming to have a lot of history of energetic use. Malfoy sighed, and lifted it to his cheek, unthinkingly. And there it was. He wasn't really expecting this, of course. He'd just wanted to get to Potter. The pillow-switching was sure to disturb him, and that was the whole point. He really didn't expect the pillow to smell so strongly of the other boy. Didn't he shower? Really, now.   
  
Malfoy laid back on his bed, closing his eyes, falling gracefully down upon the pillow, breathing shallowly but steadily. He was trembling slightly, and trying really hard to keep his mind free, floating somewhere far away from thought and even further away from understanding. He was soaking up the warmth, that was all. His toes curled, thinking he should really demand to be moved to a room with a fireplace. Really, this was unacceptable. Malfoys didn't live in such damp, drafty places without catching all sorts of nasty things, with their hereditary delicate constitutions. Who knows what sort of things such a passing illness could make you do. He breathed in deeply, shuddering ever so delicately along the whole length of his body. His mouth moved against the pillow, forming words, or sentences, or whole monologues which never actually took shape and gave themselves up to the freedom of sound.   
  
He fell asleep like that, clutching the pillow, a tiny smile hiding in the corners of his lips, a slow, steady warmth building somewhere in his belly. He didn't think about it, but he dreamed of big cozy rooms, large, soft sofas and cold toes meeting under hastily thrown quilts. He woke up quite disoriented, blinking blankly into the pale early winter sunlight. He barely remembered who he was for a second, and the only thing he knew immediately was that he was never switching the pillows back.  
~~  
  
At breakfast, Potter didn't confront him about the pillow incident as expected. They both stole looks at each other when they thought they weren't being observed, even though they were always wrong. They had a secret now. Something neither one was willing to part with or confront. This created a sort of safe zone, a place where the winter between them and around them didn't touch. They would never have admitted it, but that was something neither of them wanted to risk losing. It was better this way, anyway. When Potter's little Gryffindor fan-club returned, Malfoy was sure he would have to dodge a lot of embarrassing questions. And considering he couldn't point to Malfoy without raising even -more- questions, it really became quite an amusing little scenario. Malfoy smirked to himself over his morning eggs, feeling self-satisfied once more. He felt Potter's eyes on him, soft and questioning, but no longer pretending at interrogation, and frowned slightly. He was starting to look at him more than expected. He wasn't sure he liked this new development. It wasn't part of the game. He realized he had to teach Potter the rules soon, or else he was just going to break all of them without ever stopping to consider it. Yes, soon.  
~~  
  
It was Christmas eve, and Dumbledore had announced that this year, they were starting a new tradition. Malfoy thought that was quite sickening, coming from Dumbledore, but he had a certain ingrained respect for the word tradition, so he was feeling vaguely tolerant about the utter sappiness and sentimentality of it all. Such a Gryffindor tradition it was-- or worse yet, Hufflepuff. This made sense of course, since as a rule, each year there were disproportionately more Hufflepuffs staying behind for Christmas vacation than any other house. Malfoy didn't even pretend to understand it, except as yet another example of the universe conspiring to make him sick to his stomach. This was nothing new. Though this time, if he could get over his rightful indignation at sharing such close quarters with such a scandalously large number of Hufflepuffs, he might actually enjoy the possibilities for mischief. He quickly corrected himself. Evil. He was out for blood, not mischief. He was really getting soft, he thought disgustedly. It must be the pillows.  
  
The few Slytherins remaining sat away from him on the Quidditch stands, apparently still smarting from his latest evil plan to get the House under his control by making all their underwear randomly either disappear for a fortnight or become extremely redolent of week-old rotting cheese. He thought it was quite amusing at the time, whether or not it gave him control over all of Slytherin, but really, no one agreed, it seemed. They were all such rotten sports. He sniggered. Almost as rotten as their funny-smelling underwear. Really, it was for the best they sat away from him, so that he didn't have to be subjected to the overwhelming stench of moldy cheese. Malfoy smiled, picking out Potter's wildly untamed mop from a considerable distance. Potter, who was also sitting alone-- but that was mostly because this year, he was the only Gryffindor staying for break, aside from a couple of first and second years who were probably way too intimidated by The Boy Who Lived to do more than stare and squeak slightly any time he passed too close to them. At least he wasn't the only one who wasn't having a happy family-choked holiday, Malfoy thought with what he was sure was malice. Never suffer alone, if you have to suffer. This was one of the Malfoys' cardinal rules, and one which he had a particular appreciation for.  
  
It had finally gotten dark enough, and the fireworks had started. Malfoy didn't look, because he was quite sure he'd seen it all before. Potter, on the other hand, had his head thrown back, and probably his mouth open as well, Malfoy thought contemptuously. He seemed to be having a rollicking good time, there by himself, gaping at the pretty lights in the sky. Malfoy felt that familiar sickened, bitter taste flooding the back of his throat. He really couldn't stand for this. He had to do something. No one would notice him get up anyway, since even the Slytherins were seemingly enraptured, staring at the bursts and flashes and cascading symphonies of light in the sky above the castle.   
  
He sat down next to Potter, not saying anything, though he couldn't have explained why if you'd asked him. He was just staring for a minute, nothing wrong with that. Regardless, he didn't need to look up, anyway, since the fireworks were reflected quite clearly in Potter's eyes, as well as flickering frequently on his stupid clumsy spectacles. Malfoy's mouth was inexplicably dry, and his hands clenched tightly in his lap. He couldn't for the life of him look away, just like Potter seemed unable to tear his eyes from the sky. Malfoy was beginning to be quite peeved with this little fact, increasingly so with every minute, as he was sure Potter couldn't possibly be so oblivious as to not realize his presence. He was a Malfoy. You don't ignore a Malfoy, that was really the number one rule. And didn't he say he was going to teach Potter the rules? Yes, of course he did. Well, that may as well start now, he thought. He may as well show him who was the real attraction tonight.  
  
He reached his hand out abruptly, his ice-cold fingers grasping Potter by the chin, and turned the startled boy's face firmly toward him.   
  
"Wha--?" Potter stuttered briefly, his eyes focusing on Malfoy with a strange (though disoriented) intensity, somehow seeming both startled and completely unsurprised.   
  
Before any further inanity could escape Potter's lips, Malfoy thought it was best to shut him up in the most expedient manner available. As his lips were finally sealing over Potter's, all he could think of was that things were going exactly according to plan. Also, that it was surprisingly pleasant playing a game where only you knew the rules. And then Potter showed him that he somehow knew the rules too, because he was swiftly breaking them. Because Potter's tongue was beating his, in the race to claim the other's mouth, and Potter's hands were tangling almost painfully in his hair, and Potter was quite simply beginning to steal his breath, but by then he was way too far gone to notice, or even care.   
  
The snow began to fall gently, landing on their hair and their noses and their lips, doing its best to freeze their toes and chill their hearts, but it was of no use. As soon as it touched them, it promptly melted, running down their cheeks and dipping into the hollows between their fingers, running down their chins and disappearing. Was Potter smiling against his lips? Malfoy fancied himself offended. His hand wiggled deftly into Potter's robes, making the other boy gasp and shiver, though really, his fingers were warming a bit too rapidly for his tastes, but no matter. Plans were made for changing, he thought, fighting his own helpless gasps and swallowing moans rapidly. He could still win. He'd give the Gryffindor something to smile about, all right.  
  
The sky was still exploding with light and sound, and winter was digging yet deeper into the frozen earth. Apparently, besides all that, it was Christmas, the time of year for all things cozy and sentimental and decidedly un-Malfoy. Oh well. Really, who gave a damn. Draco Malfoy finally had The Boy Who Lived right where he wanted him, squirming in his tightening grasp, so to speak. Coming in hot, shuddering spurts inside that same grasp, scant embarrassing minutes later. And if he was following him the whole way, well, no one needed to know that, did they.  
~~ 


End file.
